the Father, the Skeptic, and the Saint
by god-is-undead
Summary: Life went on after that ordinary high school student dropped in on Midgar and came home. Now, years later, she will learn that old grudges have not been forgotten. Rated for behavior and language.
1. sunrise

**Disclaimer**: In no way do I own FFVII. If I had, the Compilation would have been scrapped on the proposition table.

**Notes**: If you like your protagonists following a perfect code of ethics or morality, please look elsewhere. I do not find such people natural or at all interesting. I do not write about them. What I _do_ do with my characters is this: **be very mean to them**. I have more of an interest in character interaction than combat scenes, and I might as well tell you now that the romantic front is mainly of an OCxOC nature, plays second fiddle to the overarching story, and is in any case subdued.

**This is **_**not**_** a story about anyone going to Midgar to hook up with Cloud or Sephiroth.**

I'm not sure how many people will actually read this; most stories of this type are written with the protagonist ages 14 to 18, and this one is essentially a sequel to that idea. There's boring stuff in here, like work. Still, they tell you to write what you know, and I refuse to revisit my teenage years. Please give it a try.

**PS.,** People swear in this story, as fluidly as in real life. I don't care if 'it's unprofessional,' first of all this is fanfiction so it doesn't have to be professional, and anyway I've read some excellent stories with lots of swearing. Above all, you do not have to read it. So if you have a problem with that, you know what to do. Honestly, what do you people do when Cid Highwind debuts in a fic? Stick your fingers in your eyes?

* * *

><p>###<p>

There was a man sitting on my porch who I did not recognize. He was tall and stoutly built, wearing jeans and had over that only light jacket. Despite the bitter winter wind it was not even zipped up.

I pulled into a parking space further back in the lot, from which point I could observe him, and consider my course of action.

The first thing to consider was that I was a single woman, coming home before the mass influx of day laborers returning to their lairs, and that the cameras installed in the lights might not do me any good in the immediate sense.

The second thing to consider was that if he actually were a hostile, that he would not be sitting on my porch in broad daylight, in full view of the highway, the access road, the aforementioned cameras, and whoever else was home at this hour if he had any sense.

It was worth contemplating that I was being unnecessarily paranoid. Coincidences were a fair factor in life, and I had lived long enough to account for the possibility.

I wished that Brandon were there with me, so I could make him go and figure it out. This wasn't a dangerous neighborhood, and crime wasnt very common, but there was something threatening about the man set my hair on end, and my gut feelings were usually reliable.

I looked at the clock despite myself. It was almost sixteen minutes past three. If I waited much longer I would be late.

_How much is this job worth to me? _I admitted to myself, as much as I hated to: _a lot._

Thus the decision was made for me, and I reluctantly got out of the car.

The parking lot was mostly empty. The high school kids hadn't had time to make it back home yet, and their working parents wouldn't be home for another couple of hours or more.

That might be the shortest time frame in which someone might find my body.

The thought triggered an instant, almost disgusted recoil; was this _me__?_ How far had I fallen, in the last few years; evidently low enough to deprive me of my spine.

I stepped up the pace and resolved to say nothing at all to the man. He was on my porch, not my sofa, and he wasn't actually doing anything. Just to be safe, feeling obnoxious and foolish somehow, I stuck my hand in my purse and took hold of my canister of bear mace.

I nodded at him once, in acknowledgement, but did not meet his eyes exactly, and stepped past him.

When I heard him stand, I turned my head. My heart, however, did not speed up; it stayed steady along with my composure, although all of my faculties were on high alert.

"Do you live here?" he asked. I noticed his accent was not Southern. It was a neutral Midwest tone. I did not have a Southern accent either despite being born and raised in the region, so I did not give it any special thought.

"Yes. Why?" I said, and dropped my hand. My keys were clenched in a loose fist, teeth poking out through my fingers. My other hand unlatched the top of the bear mace, unseen.

"Do you know how I could get in touch with Brandon Backer?" he asked. He kept a little bit of distance with his hands hidden in his pockets. Standing on a lower step put him almost at eye level wih me. He was a great pit bull of a man, with gray eyes and buzzed off hair. I thought he looked like a creep.

"Why do you need to get in touch with him?" I asked, not smiling or showing my surprise. "Who are you?"

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I have no idea," I said bluntly. My tone made it pretty obvious that I wasn't going to answer any other questions, either.

The man suddenly glared at me, and for an instant I tensed up. The building rush hour traffic swished past in ignorance, but seemed all the closer. A pregnant second two ticked by.

"Watch your mouth."

"I'll try," I retorted, "Bye."

He paused for a second, visibly annoyed as our eyes locked again, but then left without another word. He got into an old Detroit monster and drove off while I stood on my porch and watched to make sure he went out the gate, which required a keycard to access.

_Does that mean he lives here somewhere or he has access anyway?_

"_Fuck_," I muttered.

Brandon would be home in three hours from his job at the meat processing plant, and I would be waiting for him. We were definitely having a talk tonight.

* * *

><p>##<p>

"I'm home, sweetie!"

Maybe he had forgotten how much I hated being called sweetie, but I would not argue with him right now. Not yet, anyway; it wouldn't do any good to start an argument just because I had managed to work myself up over the last few hours, and was now just barely holding myself back from coming at him with a knife and interrogating him until he broke.

"Rhea?" he said, when I did not immediately respond.

I stepped out of the kitchen, wiping my hands dry with a tea towel.

"In here, Brandon."

He appeared around the corner, all bright smiles and cheer. He was carrying a big box wrapped in silver iridescent paper.

"I missed you," he said, and kissed me on the forehead. He was quite tall; I had always liked tall men. "What's for dinner? Smells good. Um—it won't mess with my seafood allergy, will it?"

"Not unless sheep recently evolved to have gills and learned to swim," I replied dryly.

"Sheep?" he repeated, and stood there with his eyes comically wide. "You made sheep?"

_Good God, it's hard to stay mad at this idiot._ Sometimes, like now, I resented that about him, that he was able to completely disarm me.

"Lamb, actually. I Googled how to make a rack of lamb. Sheep meat is called mutton."

He still seemed startled, but then shook his head.

"Here—this is for you," he said, and placed the shiny box in my arms.

"What is it?" I asked, perhaps sounding nonplussed.

"Youll have to open it," he said. "It's a surprise."

Brandon, bless his sweet soul, was not a person I envisioned being with. I always figured I would end up with someone like myself, and if I had there would never have been surprise gifts or boundless enthusiasm. I smiled genuinely; every single time his spontaneity still seemed novel.

I brought the box into the kitchen and put it on the table. The box and the lid were wrapped separately, so that all I had to do was pull off the top and look inside. A single iris in a vase sat beside a book I had not bought because of our budget.

A brief spasm of exasperation flared and died. This cost money, an expense we could not afford, but there was a better time and place to discuss it.

"Oh, wow!" I gushed, and took out the book and the flower by its little ceramic pot. "Thank you, Brandon."

"I had to get the people at Borders to help me," he said, pointing at the thick volume, which was about the Unification of Germany in the late 1800s. "This stuff is totally not my thing."

"How thoughtful," I said, sincerely. I flipped through the pages. I was reminded of how badly I had wanted it now that it was in my hands. I looked up. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving," Brandon said, "Is everything ready?"

I had not liked making tables as a little kid. We only did it when my dad was home from work in time to eat, which wasn't frequent. It happened more often as I grew older, but then when I went to college I had a cafeteria to feed me, and it was only after Brandon and I moved in together that I voluntarily took the time and trouble.

He sat down and I placed the dinner platter in the middle of the table, next to the mashed potatoes. I sat down, too.

"What part of the lamb is it?" Brandon asked.

"The ribs," I said.

He blinked at it, possibly mystified that anyone would not simply put a slab of ribs on a plate and call it quits. These had been frenched-had the tip ends stripped down to bare bone-and arranged in a shallow pool of mint sauce.

"Well, they look good to me," he remarked with the eagerness of an unpicky eater, and grabbed three of them.

We had been eating for a while, and discussing our work days, when finally I decided I had had enough of pretending that everything was alright. There was no easy way to start this conversation so I took a deep breath and got straight to the point. I set down my silverware and touched my mouth with my napkin, set it down, and went straight for the kill.

"Brandon," I said, and he looked up at me, unawares, "There was someone waiting for you when I got home from work today. I have no idea who he was, but he wanted to know when you would be home."

Brandon froze, he blanched and turned a sickly gray. He dropped the lamb rib numbly.

"Oh my God, Rhea—Are you okay? What—what did he look like?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Have you gotten into something?"

"It's—it's nothing—"

"It is not _nothing_," I interrupted. "Brandon, I need to know. It doesn't just affect you—that guy showed up on our doorstep and I think that if we hadn't been out in public things would have gotten ugly." I sighed, and spread my hands. "What; are you gambling again?" _He's never actually gone in the hole that I know of, but…_

He was silent for a little too long, and his guilty look told me all I needed to know. I had guessed correctly, or near enough the mark. I sat back, vaguely annoyed but by far more concerned about our health and safety.

"_Fuck_," I muttered, and ran a hand through my hair. It fell loosely around my neck and shoulders. I folded my arms. "Do you owe these guys money, or something?"

"Five thousand," he admitted. "I almost had it, Rhea. Then they pulled out—I swear it was an extra queen of diamonds. They were cheating."

"Honestly that doesn't matter," I said. "You lost."

"But it wasn't fair," Brandon argued.

"Okay? Don't play back door poker!"

He sat in silence for a minute, squirming anxiously. He didn't say anything, and wouldn't look at me.

"Did you use any of our savings?" We had nearly wiped out our joint pool savings account on fixing the Hyundai last month after somebody sideswiped us.

"No," he said, quickly. "No. I didn't. It was a loan. I promised to pay them back double."

"Wait, double? Hang on—did you borrow five K or twenty-five hundred? Do you owe five-thousand or ten-thousand?"

"I borrowed twenty-five hundred…so I owe five-thousand."

I sighed with relief. At least that was within reasonable boundaries.

"Brandon, who is it you owe money to?"

"Some guys at the pier…"

I looked at him narrowly.

"Well, I guess you're just going to have to pay them back," I said.

"What?" Brandon said, and I could see that his shock was absolutely genuine.

"You boiled the soup—now slurp it."

"I thought you would support me!"

"I do support you," I replied. "But you lost, so suck it up and pay the consequences."

His countenance trembled; he seemed confused more than anything else.

"But they cheated!"

"So what?"

"So what? So it's not fair that I have to pay them at all!"

I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

"Yes, but you voided all your ideas of right and wrong as soon as you walked into their house. They took you for a ride. Second of all, they came here. They want their money and I think that violence is definitely on the list of possibilities if you don't play ball."

Brandon stared at me helplessly.

"So you think I should pay them off? I shouldn't call the police?"

I hesitated just a moment. _Was_ it more appropriate to call the police? Oh, screw it. It was beyond me to try and guess.

"Well, I suppose you could do that," I said uncertainly. "I wouldn't. I think the cops might have a few questions for _you_ about illegal gambling."

_I also think it would be a massive dick move. You'd also going to probably get killed in prison for being a bitch-ass snitch._

"Well—what would you do?"

"I think I would pay them off. If I get myself into something I feel like I should take responsibility for it."

"I don't think I can do that," he said slowly.

"You don't think you can do what? Take responsibility for your actions?"

He jerked once, and his face turned bright red.

"Tell me what's the problem, Brandon. You know, I should get up and walk out that door and not come back until this is over, say fuck it and let you work this thing out yourself because you _told_ me you were done with this shit."

His eyes widened and he looked instantly panicked.

"No! I—"

I silenced him with a very sharp gesture.

"But I'm not going to. Call them up, say you've got the money."

"What?" he said faintly. "Rhea, we _don't_ have the money."

"Yes, we do," I said. "_I_ do, actually."

There was a prolonged pregnant silence.

"I—I don't know what to say, I—"

"Oh, believe me—you're going to pay me back," I said shortly. "And we're going to draw up a legal contract to make sure of it."

He stared at me in shocked silence.

"What, you think I'm just going to give you five grand without a guarantee? These guys can shoot you. I can take you to small claims court."

"I'm your boyfriend," he said, suddenly serious.

"And that makes you exempt from balancing the check book how?"

"You would _sue_ me over five thousand dollars?"

"Only if you don't pay up. Those are my terms," I said. "Take it or leave it. That five thousand is coming out of my personal savings account. Think of the guarantee as payback for putting me through this shit."

"Your what? Since when did you have _that?_"

I sighed hard. It was sometimes a deal breaker for two people in a serious relationship to have secrets like money hidden away but I had simply neglected to ever mention it, thereby lying by omission; I wondered what Brandon thought. He couldn't have thought anything good, I could see just how mad he was.

"I've been saving money since I was sixteen," I said. "Some of it is tied up in investments but there's a good bit of it just gathering interest."

"How much money do you _have?_"

I looked at him incredulously.

"In what alternate universe have you proven yourself financially responsible?" I said. "It's _my_ money." _I'm also not keen on you figuring out just how much you might count on for a fall back. It's not there for that_. "And Brandon—this is a one-time bailout. If you _ever_ pull a stunt like this again, I'm leaving you and you'll be on your own."

His alarm was deep and breathless; I stared back at him implacably.

"You didn't leave me before," he said uncertainly. "Why would you leave me now? Rhea, I need you! You keep me sane!"

I stared.

"Keep _yourself_ sane!" I retorted. "For that matter—" I lifted an eyebrow, "I didn't leave you the first time because really, you were only losing money in casinos, and I'm not leaving you _this_ time because this is the first time you've done _this_ sort of thing. If you do it again, it's over—three strikes, you're out."

* * *

><p>##<p>

I actually like pit bulls. Pits have cute fat faces. I think shitty owners have ruined the breed; when labs were popular those crazy inbred fuckers bit people, too, but owners who encourage their animals to be aggressive are awful people.


	2. snow

No, it doesn't seem FFVII-y yet. It probably seems very boring because nobody's talking about homework or bullies and Rhea _seems_ like she's got her shit together. Bear with me for a while and then you'll be up to your ears in Lifestream and related imagery.

##

* * *

><p>My friend had passed the bar last year; we had gone through undergraduate studies together and while I struggled with the economy and near homelessness—my parents were not inclined to let their grown child live with them however 'normal' it was nowadays, so much so that the media gave my age group the moniker "the Boomerang Generation," and since my main problem was the inability to get a job to pay rent, it was doubly out of the question—she went to law school. Then last year I got my job with the highway department and I moved off my cousin's couch, she graduated, and the quality of our lives vastly improved.<p>

Jessica got a position as an assistant attorney at Jacobs and Worman, a law firm housed on the second floor above a deli market. It was a small office, and not very well regarded because it took questionable cases to court and dragged them out with the aim of tying up enough money and time that the defendant was worn down and finally settled out of sheer frustration.

"Want a coke?" Jessica asked over her shoulder. I could only see her back and the back of her head.

I shook my head.

"No."

Last night Brandon had refused to speak to me after our discussion at the table. It stung, but although he clearly wanted me to share all my fiscal details and not force him to sign a legally binding contract, I ignored his petulance and read my new book instead. Brandon said nothing about it before he took his pillow and a blanket and slept on the couch.

"So what's up—you said you need me to write a contract? What for?"

"Brandon owes five thousand bucks to some people down on the pier, and I want to make sure he pays me back."

Jessica, who was organizing a mountain range of files with the help of four insensible interns that she was directing while at the same time talking to me, twisted around.

"What?" Everybody knew: the pier was full of criminals and illegal activity.

_Maybe it's weird that I can talk about this stuff like it's so normal. Or maybe I should have left out the part about the pier. Note to self: act more freaked out in the future, and make even more sure that Jessica has absolute plausible deniability_.

"Look, I need a contractual obligation in writing that Brandon will pay me back the five thousand dollars that I'm loaning him."

Jessica's fingernails rapped on the stacked papers, and she peered at me over the rims of her glasses.

"You know, I should have given up trying to figure out _why_ you do the things you do years ago. Trying to figure it out would make a person go crazy."

"It might make things easier," I said with a Cheshire smile on my face.

Jessica stared at me for a moment longer. I knew what she wanted, but I continued to smile at her as if I didn't.

She finally sighed in defeat.

"You've never asked me to do anything illegal," she admitted. "When do you need it by?"

"I was hoping that maybe we could talk about it over lunch, and have it written up by tonight," I said. "I know you're busy, but this doesn't have to be long. Pay me back or else, you know, something simple like that. Are you anywhere close to a stopping point? There's a La Madeleine's over by the highway, do you ever eat there?"

Jessica pinned me with a searching stare; I could see the gear s whirling behind her pale blue eyes and I wondered, wearily, what I was going to have to give up in exchange for this favor.

"Are you going to be alright?" she asked the nearest, most responsible intern, who was clearly disappointed to see that we were leaving.

"Yeah, we'll be fine," he said.

"Great, I'm paying," I said. "Get your coat."

We walked out together into the cold winter day. Yesterday it had been gray and thick like a blanket; today the cold was crisp. The sun was bright and the breeze was down, and we walked together through the parking lot towards La Madeleine's which was on the other side of the outside shopping mall. It had been built during the highest point of Bush's war economy, and now the new, gleaming facades were vacant and their paint was beginning to fade. The shrubberies and fountain weren't quite as well kept up as I remembered them being, and the sprawling parking lots were howling wastes. The movie theater was long closed.

When I bothered to think about that, I could only think of the early '90's, after the Gulf War which was my earliest memory and around the time Bosnia was hotter than a ghost pepper; when I was a kid there was no going green, or any shits given about how gas efficient a car was except by fringe elements the majority of people dismissed. The economy was riding high. The Soviet Union had just fallen. I learned geography on old Cold War era maps during the very time that Europe was redrawing its borders, so for a while I thought that Berlin was the capital of both East and West Germany, only vaguely recognized that Czechoslovakia had split into two countries, and never quite got the Balkans straight.

But that was years ago; the world of my early childhood was a distant memory. The world had changed, and I had changed completely. I wondered if anyone else my age thought of things like this, or if I was just a weirdo.

"So I need a new toll tag," Jessica said conversationally.

I pressed my lips tightly together.

"Lord, Jess, I ask you for a legally sound memo and _you_ want a free toll tag?"

"So _expedite_ mine," she said. "I'll still pay."

I hesitated. Could I get Jessica hooked up with a toll tag? It was worth a shot.

"I can't promise you anything, but I know a couple of people who do the paperwork, and I'll see what I can do. Just get me your social security number and the money."

Jessica nodded.

"Okay, so—a contract requiring Brandon to pay you back five thousand dollars? Anything more specific than that? What does the pier have to do with any of this?"

"Only why I need to loan Brandon five thousand dollars to begin with—but that doesn't need to be a part of the contract."

"Is everything alright?"

"Of course it is. I've handled worse."

"When?" Jessica said. "When have you handled worse than this? We've known each other since kindergarten. You grew up in the same neighborhood I did, and we both know the worst thing that ever happened there was when the Phillip's yard got TP'd. _When_ have you handled anything worse? When your computer crashed in college and you lost your whole final project?"

I said nothing, only watched my feet as I walked. _When. Always _when_. At what interval would I have had the time to get involved in anything shady. That's the same question everybody asked—has always asked, ever since—that time…ever since I changed. What's the phrase Professor Jackson said? A _paradigm shift_._

"Here and there," I said vaguely. "Mostly in the last couple of years." A huge lie. I spent most of the time I was unemployed on the computer looking for a job and eating my cousin's Pizza Pockets. "I know what I'm doing, Jess."

"Do you? Have you called the police?"

I shrugged.

"Here we are," I said, and opened the door. Inside, the décor was built to resemble something provincial and French, but provincial France was a place I had never been and I could not comment as to the accuracy. I supposed it was just as accurate as any other commercial stereotype in America. We got our trays, and slid down the line.

"Ryan wants kids," Jessica said, out of nowhere.

I looked at her sharply, and almost dropped my cup.

"Huh?"

"I said: Ryan wants kids. I told him now wasn't the time, what with me starting out at the firm and all—I want to at least make junior partner before I have kids. I want them, I just don't want them _now_."

"So wait. I don't see why everyone's in a rush to get knocked up these days."

"He's been talking about it for the last six months," Jessica sighed. "Do you and Brandon ever talk about things like that?"

I paused. Kids were not high on my list of life's priorities. There were those who claimed that it was impossible to really "grow up"—whatever that really meant because I sure didn't wake up one day having "leveled up," evolving into an adult the same way you would evolve a Pokemon—without having children. I found the argument patronizing and the expectation downright offensive.

"I'm not planning on having kids," I admitted. "You know that."

"Yeah, but what about Brandon? Doesn't he want kids?"

"I think he does, someday. Who knows if we'll be together then."

Jessica looked at me sidelong.

"Does he know you're this uncommitted to your relationship?"

"Uncommitted? I'm uncommitted? _Really?_ Two people can't have a serious relationship that doesn't culminate in reproduction?"

Jessica gave me a weird look, and finally had to shake her head in complete defeat.

"Most people would say that's the biological point of a relationship."

"Screw biology," I said sharply. "Actually, screw people who abuse biology. There's a handful of other species that screw for fun, and not every ape species has designated lifelong mates. While I'm at it, screw Bible Thumpers too—there's two of them in my apartment complex that keep bugging us about getting married. Like living in sin is such a scandal these days. _Hah_."

"The point is—if he wants kids and you don't…" Jessica frowned in concern. "I know you—and I know there's no way to compromise on something like having kids. You've either got them or you don't. Even when you separate and don't have anything else to do with it you don't know if that kid will come back wanting to have a relationship with you."

I paused, hesitant and serious on the matter. There was a last option, between not having kids and compromising my career for them...

"_He_ could always stay at home and raise the kids," I said, raising my eyebrows at Jessica, seeking a response.

"What? Have Brandon be a stay-at-home dad? Have you talked to him about this?"

I shook my head.

"No, it was just something that occurred to me last week," I said. "If we get married—only if kids or real property entered the picture, for the tax and custody thing, but I don't want to be the one to stay at home and raise them. I don't like babies, and I've worked too hard to get where I am, and for that matter I earn more money and get better benefits than Brandon. There are better chances for promotion at the Highway Department, too."

"So you _are_ planning on getting married and having kids. How cute, Rhea's going to be a mommy. I hope your kids never get ahold of all the smutfics you wrote when you were twelve. They'd be humiliated to know their mother has such a filthy imagination."

"We are _not_ planning on anything," I said indignantly. "If anything I'm planning what I'm going to say when the subject comes up again. And before we get any of that hashed out we really need to take care of this gambling debt problem—"

I froze. Jessica zeroed in like a hawk with a military grade radar built in, and I looked away from her as we continued moving down the line. I paid for our meals, and we sat down.

"Gambling debt problem?" she said, in a subdued voice that was singularly businesslike. I had her undivided concern.

I stared at her balefully.

"Is that what this is about? Is he going to casinos again?"

"No, he's not," I said. "Jessica, let it go—just write up the contract. Do you want a toll tag or not?"

Jessica pulled back slightly; a frown creased her brow.

"Well—of course I'll write the thing, but how are you going to make Brandon sign it?"

"Let me worry about that, just write it up. Do you need to be present as a witness?"

"Ideally," Jessica said uneasily.

"Then let's all four of us go out to eat tonight," I said. "I'll have Brandon sign it then."

A nascent plan flickered to life in my mind, but took no progressive form. Instead it danced and pulsed like a living thing, flexible and forgiving. Brandon would be drawn to it, and it would zap him right out of the sky.

Jessica looked uncomfortable, and understandably suspicious, so she didn't immediately nod.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," I said. "It'll be fine."

##

* * *

><p>Brandon still wasn't speaking to me by that evening and agreed colorlessly when I suggested dinner. He was, instead, pale and drawn, and studiously hiding his chest from me. He didn't usually wear a shirt in our apartment so I noticed immediately.<p>

"What happened?"

"You are _uncanny_," Brandon said shortly.

"Mom used to call me unnatural," I retorted, not liking his tone. My mother loved the book True Grit, and Mattie Ross of near Dardanelle, Arkansas, had been my childhood heroine, someone whose awesome resilience I admired, while I had struggled. In fact, Back Then, I used to imagine I was Mattie Ross, it was the only thing that made it all easier—

"Well—whatever you are. It's nothing. Nothing happened to me."

I rolled my eyes at him. Did he _really_ think I was going to be convinced?

"Take off your shirt."

"No!" he retorted. "Why do you need to see?"

"Brandon, there's really only one explanation for your not taking off your shirt," I said tartly. "It's not cold, so let me guess—somebody paid you a visit?"

He gave me that look, the one he used when I was running rings around him and guessing too many things, the one at the nexus between terror, amazement, and rage. He probably thought I spied on him, and I didn't do that. I didn't even know the password to his iPhone. But, really—logic dictated only a very small number of possibilities. Given his current situation I couldn't imagine any other inspiring this sort of reluctance.

"Stay out of it, Rhea, it's none of your business."

"They know where you—where _we_—live! They came to our doorstep and, whoever that was, they talked to _me_. They know my face, Brandon, and I don't think I made a very good impression."

"Do you ever?" he retorted peevishly.

His iPhone beeping wildly cut off what I was going to say. Brandon dug it out and glanced at the number. He turned a sickly shade of green, and staggered as if ill.

"Is that them?" I asked. He didn't answer. "Well, answer it!"

"I—I can't," he admitted, after the phone had been ringing for a good five seconds.

"Oh, for fuck's sake—give it to me!"

I snatched the phone out of his trembling hand. The cover had a bloody Hellsing Ultimate theme. I thought it was pure kitsch because I preferred to let my hobbies slide quietly under the table and remain in the private realm, but I let Brandon think I liked it.

"Hello? Who is this?"

There was a momentary silence.

"Give the phone to Brandon."

I looked at my boyfriend. He had a lot of good things about him, but none of them had been very evident recently, and I was definitely feeling irritated about that. If he wasn't going to man up, then someone had to.

"He's a bit caught up at the moment. Who am I speaking to? Is this the guy he owes money to?"

There was a brief pause.

"Who is this?" they asked. It was a male voice with a Mexican Spanish accent.

"Is this the one who sent some thug to sit on my doorstep?" I demanded. Brandon was beginning to thaw out, and he stared at me in open horror.

"What-are-you-doing-you're-going-to-get-me-killed!" he hissed.

"I understand Brandon owes you five thousand dollars. Fine, that's his problem—he's got the money. Where does he need to meet you?"

"I'm-not-meeting-anyone!"

I looked at Brandon. I had never been disgusted by him before, but his panicked blindness was really unattractive. I really had to wonder what he would have done if faced with the Turks…

"On second thought, I think it would be a better idea if we had a middleman. _I_ will meet you. Name the place and time."

Laughter scratched its way out from the little speaker.

"Is this a joke?"

"I'm not laughing."

"You're that mouthy bitch, aren't you?" I didn't like his tone, but I said nothing about it. "I've heard about you. No, we only want to see Brandon."

"What difference does it make who gives you the money?"

There was silence on the end of the line, and I could hear scraps of conversation rustling in the background. Finally, he spoke again.

"Alright—let's meet. I'll call back with a time and place in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes—I'll be here," I said, and hung up. I turned a fierce glare on him and spoke sharply. "Brandon, before you say anything—don't. Sign the paper Jessica wrote up and get ready to go."

_Screw the plan, and the rules—the universe tends to unfold as it should_.

###

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

_Pride cometh before the fall_. Also, one should not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup. Oh, Rhea. You mouthy bitch, you. Might want to **not** bite off more than you can chew, eh? Don't want to listen? Okay. Suit yourself.

Okay, this might be a good time to warn people that I really, really like writing outside of the normal good/bad dichotomy. Rhea is the former normal girl…but let's face it…an extraordinary experience will change a person, sometimes fundamentally, and _not always in a good way_. I like being cruel to my characters. They exist for my manipulation.

Second of all, there is such a thing as a "reliable narrator." This means that with a reliable narrator you can trust that bias isn't interfering to lead you astray. I like unreliable narrators. They make for such more interesting drama.


	3. smoke

Brandon hadn't wanted to sign, and after he did, he wouldn't get in the car at all. He was too scared. To say I was angry was a massive understatement, but I decided to go myself. I withdrew the money from the ATM and set my GPS to the address Lenny had given me over the phone.

Lenny—the man who called, Brandon had told me he was the one pretty much in charge—had given me very careful instructions. I was to come unarmed, and ask for him specifically at the bar.

The location turned out to be a dingy shack down on the wharf, near the piers themselves. It was almost abandoned aside from the few firetrap cars clustered around it at this late hour, and I got out, wishing I had thought this through a little more thoroughly.

I had never been very good in a fight. Oh, I could shoot somebody—after the first time, after someone tried to put a knife in me, it was all about me living and them not being able to put that knife in me, whether that left them dead, disabled, or living—but I had never had real training, aside from when Zack tried his best to teach me the basics. He tried, but I remained functionally useless.

So I knew in theory to hit vulnerable spots with an open palm-actually punching, unless done right, could break your knuckles in a real fight-like the throat, the ear, the genitals, or go for the eyes if I could get in close enough, and to protect my jaw and keep my head down and never take my eyes off my target, but it had been a long time since I had tried.

And I didn't know that I would have to fight now, but I wanted to be ready in case I did.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was dingy and hot, and nowhere near up to health code standards, but there was a bar set up along the back wall. I walked up to it, ignoring the twenty or so other patrons, such as they were-there were no other women. It looked like they could have filmed a scene from The Mariachi in here, it was that kind of shitty dive.

The bartender looked up at me, raised his eyebrows, and wandered over.

"I'm here to see Lenny," I said, in as clear and confident a voice as I could affect. The man's eyes traveled up and down the length of me, taking my measure in criticizing silence.

"Take a seat," he replied, easily. "He'll see you when he's ready."

So I did, sliding into the stool right next to me.

"Can I get you anything?"

I let my eyes drift over the collection of bottles set up along the back wall.

"Amaretto sour," I said, refusing to feel at all awkward about it. What did I have to prove to these people? If this were my last drink, I'd damn well like it, thank you very much.

"You don't look like a cop," the bartender said, candidly.

A giggle bubbled up from inside, and I grinned at him.

"I'm not."

He mixed the drink for me and set it on the bar, expression neutral. Then his mouth twisted, and his eyes hardened and focused on a point over my shoulder.

Somebody slid into the stood next to mine, and at the same time their arm slid around my shoulders. I went rigid.

"You might want to let her go," the bartender said. "She-"

"Shut the fuck up back there or I'll knock another one of your teeth loose," the man next to me hissed, then he turned to me with a leer. His hand traveled lower, sliding against the curve of my waist until he was in a position to, and did, squeeze my ass.

I didn't think. There was fear there, sure, but more than that there was the built-up well of frustration that suddenly, and brilliantly, burst free.

The other people in the bar were watching, visibly entertained, when I screeched like a banshee and clawed at the man's face. He howled in shock and pain, but it did nothing much more than encourage him. He moved back and hit me across the face, where I wasn't covering my jaw.

My head whipped to the side and I felt something warm and liquid and metallic tasting fly from my mouth—_blood, shit, I better not have lost a tooth_—I sagged as the world spun out of focus. My mind scattered, but only for an instant until I felt my back slam against the floor.

I thrashed. The man had gotten my shirt open.

"Get off me you son of a bitch!" I snarled. I kicked my legs, knocking over a stool. It fell on his head, which annoyed him some more. He slapped me on the other side of my face.

At that point somebody delivered a boot heel to my assailant's head. He threw it off, and looked up with blazing fury at the culprit.

He froze, and his mouth made a little, guilty, stunned "O."

"Get the fuck off her, you idiot," snarled a greasy guy in a track suit. "She got business here."

_Man, am I glad I called ahead_. Then, knowing that such thoughts may have been premature and I was staring the fire-after-the-frying-pan in the face, I thought, _God, get me out of here alive and I'll consider going to church on major holidays. This was such a bad idea_.

My assailant knocked the wind out of me as he got up, and scuttled off like a scolded puppy.

I stood up slowly. My gaping shirt was the least of my worries, because the rest of me was in worse shape.

My drink sat on the bar still full, and I reached for it desperately. The bartender, who had stayed put with all the rest, made no expression or sound as I threw it back.

"You're not Lenny," I observed hoarsely, leaning my weight against the stool I had been sitting on. "Are you Mike?"

The man stared at me.

"How did you know," he asked suspiciously.

"Educated guess. Brandon said that Lenny had two guys with him—a Mexican named Mike and some white guy he never learned the name of when you paid him a visit."

"You his girl? The bitch on the phone? The one who talked to Ranger?"

"Yeah." _I guess. Who the fuck is Ranger?_

He stared harder, but when I had recovered enough strength to walk and fixed my clothes, he led me into the back room.

If the front bar smelled strongly of cigarettes, the back room was hazy with the smoke, and almost painful to breathe. It was better lit than the front, at least. There was a small round fold-up table with five people seated at it who were playing cards. There was a larger audience there to watch them, who mostly looked straight at me as soon as I walked in. They all looked about as straight and narrow as the rest, here, and I saw one man in particular I recognized; the man who had been waiting for Brandon.

"You got the money?" one of the players asked, without taking his eyes off the table. He was a well-dressed individual, with dark olive skin and dark hair, and a scratch of fuzz at his chin. I thought he was attractive, only now was not the time. Standing at his shoulder was the only other woman in the place, and she was dressed in killer pumps and a tight dress.

I recognized the voice by its signature accent.

"Yeah, well, I just need to know that this the last Brandon is going to hear from you guys," I said.

Lenny stopped playing and looked at me. He had light tawny eyes, which were gleaming with amusement.

"It's funny—he's such a pussy that he needs his girl to deliver the money?"

I said nothing, only stewed in anger amidst the laughter which rose up around me.

"Oh, come on now, don't be mad," Lenny said expansively. "You're much too pretty to look like that."

"I just got the shit beat out of me," I said. "I have a reason to be put out."

Lenny blinked once, and turned back to his game with a shrug.

"Do you have the money?"

"I have it with me," I replied wearily. "Is this or is this not the last we hear about this?"

"You aren't in a position to make demands," Lenny snapped. "So watch your mouth. _Yes_, this is the last you're going to hear, until your boy comes crawling back to me, begging for more."

I could not and would not make any declarations that Lenny would never see Brandon again. I simply resolved that _this_ situation would never repeat itself.

"Give it to Ranger," Lenny said.

Instead of leaving me to guess pathetically at his identity, Ranger approached and stuck his hand out under my nose. Huh, Ranger was the guy from the steps of my apartment.

I placed the slightly crumpled bank envelope in his hands. He counted out five grand, which had been withdrawn in fifties, and then gave the okay thumbs-up to Lenny.

"Now go on, get the fuck out of here," Lenny said, and I was only too happy to obey.

I burst into the winter air, and made a beeline for my car. When I was safely inside, I locked the door, and for a moment, sat there in exhausted silence. I hit my steering wheel with bottled-up adrenaline and panic.

"_Fuck!_" I cried out, and tears slipped down my cheeks. For a few seconds I could only sit there and shake. That had been as close as the skin of my teeth…

I pushed down the clutch and turned the ignition, and fled as fast as I could.

* * *

><p>*AAA*<p>

Brandon was frantic when I got home, and fussed over me like a mother hen. It was annoying, but while he pleaded with me to let him take me to a hospital, I sat resolutely on the couch and consoled myself with a whole pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream and some nature show about elephants. He got in the way of the television often enough that I felt compelled to say something.

"Would you chill out? It's not that bad. Sit down."

"Yeah, but your face—"

"It's not like I don't have scars in other places," I said bluntly. "Calm down. I'm fine." Then I looked at him sharply. "So help me God, Brandon, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'm not sticking around. This was your one freebie."

He wailed in protest.

"You can't leave me!" he cried. "I know I'm a fuck up and I know I shouldn't gamble—I won't any more. I swear to you that's the last time I'll ever _look_ at a pack of cards. I won't screw this up, Rhea. You mean too much to me."

Maybe I was just sullen and beyond caring, but I wasn't feeling it.

Brandon sat on the edge of his seat, watching me.

"What if that guy follows you? The one you said assaulted you."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," I said.

"We should call the police!"

"And tell them what? That you were borrowing money from crooks to play in illegal gambling halls so I had to step in for you, and _that_ was how come I was ever in that dump? To pay off _your_ debt?"

It infuriated me that he only looked sheepish. I turned back to the television, with a huff.

* * *

><p>*AAA*<p>

I got my first full look at myself later that night when I took a shower. I stepped into the bathroom naked, and looked in the mirror. Half of my face was purple, and my lip, just as it felt, was busted wide open. The rest of my features were a mottled mess, and there were bruises in other places that I didn't remember getting. On my arm, there was a scratch which had bled, but the blood had dried and was flaking off. Seriously, it hadn't even felt that bad a the time.

_Oh, well, at least it's not as bad as back then_…

I shook the thought away, and stepped under the faucet. The hot water stung, but I ignored it, and washed my hair and skin, moving slowly because of the aches and pains.

When I was done I got dressed in my soft footie pajamas and stood in front of the mirror, and patched myself up with Band-Aids and creams. They were going to flip shit at work tomorrow, and I was not looking forward to the questions. The color was too dark to hide with foundation or cover up, and anyway my lip couldn't be hidden.

I put the first aid kit back in the mirror cabinet and went out into our bedroom. On one side of the room Brandon had plastered his football trophies—what he collectively called his autographed jerseys, photographs, and a game ball in shadow boxes on the wall. I wanted them in the living room, but he whined until I gave in. _There's a theme here_.

On the other side of the room was my bookshelf, which was floor to ceiling, wall to wall, and overflowing—my compromise for his football stuff. _I forced it on him in retaliation. Again, theme_.

In the middle was the bed. It was low and modern and took up most of the space. On either side of the bed were separate night stands, with each with alarm clocks and lamps in different styles. I tended to sleep on the right side of the bed. Brandon liked the left side better. Perhaps tellingly, these corresponded with the sides of the room with our things adorning the walls.

On the same side of the room as the bathroom was our closet, which was divided down the middle, too.

I collapsed on the bed, and lay there with my legs sticking out over the edge for a minute.

Tomorrow was Thursday, the worst day of the week. I had a presentation to make and I was not looking forward to it at all.

* * *

><p>AAA*<p>

I woke to find that Brandon had dragged me up to the headboard and stuffed a pillow under my head. Apparently I had fallen asleep lying there with my feet sticking out without realizing it, and I opened my eyes as he shook me lightly by the ankle.

"Get up, Rhea," he said. He frowned hesitantly. "Maybe you might want to call in sick today…"

I sat up.

"No," I croaked, not at all awake yet. I looked at the clock. He had woken me up early, but that was alright; he left before I got out of bed in the mornings and was only making sure I got up at all. "I have to make the Dodgson pitch."

"Oh…well, good luck with that," Brandon said, and kissed me as I stood up. We hugged, kissed again_,_ and he left. I heard his car start and drive away, distantly.

The sun was not up in the sky yet. It was the time of day when kids were waking up to go to school, but those days were long past for me. I hardly thought about that, although I usually saw a group of high school students huddled against the wind, waiting for the bus every morning when I drove to work.

Brandon had left the toilet seat up again, something I only noticed when I tried to sit down and almost plunked into the bowl. That did not improve my mood.

The shower was more painful than last night, probably because the injuries had time to set in. I flinched unpleasantly under the hot water and could not bear to touch my face very much, which had swelled overnight, so I washed it delicately and opted against makeup. I never wore foundation or cover up on most days, anyway.

Wearing the towel wrapped around me, I went into my closet. I picked out a nice gray pantsuit and black pointy heels. The undershirt for the pantsuit was light blue. I set the clothes out on the bed and left them there while I dried my hair. Then I got dressed except for the shoes and blazer, and put my hair up.

I had a little extra time this morning so I made coffee. I usually got my first taste at work, from the community coffee pot, or from wherever I got my breakfast.

When I interviewed with Breakers and Vash, they asked me what my greatest weakness was. I said _communication_, because I'm intimidated by public speaking and can be a little loose and unreliable without a physical list to go off of. They hired me a week later, and told me that my main job would be giving presentations.

Go figure.

The digital weather clock on the kitchen counter said that the temperature was not supposed to get above forty-seven today, could get as low as twenty, and that the wind chill would be even lower.

I sat down at the kitchen table with a bag of grapes, waiting for the coffee. In the meantime, I read my new book.

The coffee eventually pinged its readiness, and I got a mug full. I added enough cream that it could really be called a latte, and drank it with one hand, while I turned the pages with the other. I stayed like that for a while.

Somewhere in the bedroom, my iPhone's alarm went off. It was a Shakira song. I did not remember enough time passing that I should have to go, but when I looked at the clock, and noticed all the pages I had read, I reluctantly admitted that I had lost track of time and got up to get a coat and leave.

I picked the black pea coat because it matched the gray and made my outfit look nice, but it was stuck on something and so I had to yank it loose. At the same time, a shoe box above it jerked free, and went sailing out, spilling its contents like guts across the carpet.

"Damn."

I looked at what had fallen, and stopped short in the half light. The shoe box was very old, I hadn't had those shoes since my Freshman year of college, and I hardly ever kept shoe boxes.

In fact the only reason I had that shoe box at all was because it was on hand when…

Gil and photographs littered the closet floor, and as I bent down to pick up my things, I wondered where the last, most insidious souvenir I kept had gone. I couldn't see it.

I picked up the money and the mementos first, and put them back in the shoe box. There were other things, like a Gold Saucer ticket and a ragged Moogle doll I picked up somewhere in the slums of Midgar, and even a now-rusted throwing star from Wutai. Guess they didn't believe in stainless steel there. But the last escaped my eyes, and I began to worry. I had thought it was safe. I had laid eyes on it the last time I peeked inside six years ago and taped it shut, and for an instant I was gripped with fear. Where the hell was the Black Materia?

_You hypocrite, you get mad at him when he keeps secrets. Now look who's keeping secrets_. I snorted. _My secret isn't going to affect us in the here and now! It's over and done, and there's no reason to ever bring it up again. Not that anyone would believe me if I did!_

I got on my hands and knees and poked around in Brandon's shoes.

_Why am I so worried? The light inside died when you came home. You can't summon Meteor with it, not that you ever could use Materia._

I scowled at myself, and sat back on my heels. I wanted to turn the closet upside down to find it, but if I looked for much longer, I would be late for work.

_What am I doing. It isn't going anywhere. If it is still here, I can find it when I get home from work_.

I stood up.

_I couldn't have lost it anywhere. I didn't take it with me to college. I kept it in the box. Where else could it be? Did it get lost somewhere along the way and I didn't notice?_

With an angry sigh, I grabbed my coat, smoothed out the wrinkles in my pants, and got ready to go. I made sure to lock up and set the alarm before I went. Outside, the high school kids looked miserable and cold before the sun had risen in the sky.

* * *

><p><em>**<em>AA_**_

_My first glimpse of Junon was through the porthole of a ship tossing in a gray squall. I __sat __curled up on my rack, wrapped up in a scratchy woolen blanket, seasick and scared__ senseless__. What if my travel papers didn't check out?_

I jerked up with a start. Somehow, I don't know when, I had fallen asleep. The whole table was staring at me in awkward silence. The clean and open meeting room had frozen.

"Rhea," my boss laughed, a bit nervously. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

I squirmed in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," I murmured lamely. "I was—I was working so hard on this presentation last night…"

"Well, are you going to be awake enough to give it?" he said, making light of the transgression. I did not doubt I would hear about it behind closed doors later, though.

"Yes, of course…"

* * *

><p>**AA**<p>

So. This is about two years coming...I've been terribly busy, that's all I've really got to say for myself. On the other hand, this account I've had for 10 years. Huh.


End file.
